The Case of the Mycroftian Affliction
by Amon.Beck
Summary: An unusual affliction has come out of nowhere to strike one Mycroft Holmes. Why have no doctors been able to diagnose it? Thinking it a malady caused by his high-stress profession, Mycroft seeks out the competent Dr. Watson to cure it (much to his Sherlock's delight). Only, John is suggesting some highly unorthodox treatments...And what does any of this have to do with DI Lestrade?
1. In Which Mycroft is Rather Disquieted

**Disclaimer**:_ I do not own BBC's Sherlock or any of the characters based off of Sir Conan Doyle's most excellent work. I make absolutely no money off of this._

**Warnings:**_ No warnings for this little drabble~_

* * *

Mycroft Holmes understood there were small things in the world he could not predict. He also understood there were odd things he would never fully comprehend. Finally, there were minute things in the universe he understood he had no complete control over. This was a sensible, intelligent stance on anomalies, and he was not ashamed to admit to this. Sometimes, god forbid, there were even baffling things that could constitute all three of these inevitabilities. He took great caution to avoid interaction with such horrors.

One anomaly that continued to befuddle but was unavoidable was English weather, though Mycroft kept up with a mobile app that dealt with the fickle variable by the minute. Today, despite the weatherman's guess at varied showers, it had been terribly sunny. No day on the British Isles could go without just a little downpour, however, and so the early morning drizzle still darkened the pavements at various intervals by the evening time. The elder Holmes somehow found perfect entertainment at following the half-dried run patterns to the sewage ducts along the street they traveled. Anthea, sitting across from his window seat, chose not to comment on his most unusual behavior. To be honest, Mycroft couldn't comment on it himself.

This was the second thing that fit all three attributes described previously. Mycroft's behavior as of late seemed sporadic. While nothing amiss in his work had a occurred (of course), even his PA was beginning to worry about how much on auto-pilot the government official was during his waking hours. This could prove to be a serious botheration should his desultory behavior continue in public. How long did they have until someone else noticed? And, when this occurred, how unsavory would that person prove to be? All it took was one mistake.

There were no new developments, no pressing crises, and not one of Sherlock's archenemies had surfaced to make as much as a ripple. The cause of such an intensification of Mycroft's less fastidious character traits entirely escaped him. More than the behavior itself, this truly had both Anthea and Mycroft unsettled.

Somehow more and more of Mycroft's time had been spent gazing off into the distance or brooding about his lavish apartments or offices. He barely ate, slept far too little, had restless sleep when he did, and was prone to losing himself in thought. Most significantly, in the last six weeks Mycroft had dropped one and a half stone. For a man who had already met his weight-loss goal not four months ago, this was a cause for concern. Mycroft was going to start looking gaunt. It was Sherlock whose form was fit for such aristocratic lightness; he'd inherited the lithe build from their mother. But Mycroft, while also tall, was meant to be stockier, like his father, in a fuller athletic figure. The hollows beneath high cheekbones were becoming pronounced, and dark circles under eyes could only be hidden by so much concealer. Suits could be adjusted only so far until tailoring was all that would fix them.

_Something was truly terribly amiss._

Mycroft had been to his family's regular physician in the city, and even to the one in the country at his mother's insistence after going to visit. For all their vast medical knowledge neither practitioner could pinpoint the origin of his distemper. After their lack of answers, and others he'd petitioned, the Holmes heir sought the comfort of work, light exercise, and reminding himself to eat. He could not falter like this. Sherlock, he had thought a few days ago, wouldn't let him live it down if something within Mycroft's control spiraled so readily out of it.

After careful consideration Anthea finally proposed contacting Dr. Watson, for the man's extensive work with those under high-stress professions such as military and government personnel was exceptional. John's connection with his baby brother also gave him a leg-up as both Mycroft and Sherlock were not much different in temperament. Their vices were far more varied, but it was not hard to see they came from the same Holmes stock. It had taken a considerable amount of thought to admit again to the correlations between Sherlock and him. No matter, Mycroft dismissed to himself, he was still far superior in maturity.

.._.Yet, not superior in control_, a wicked voice mocked him, whispering venomously in the back of his mind.

Whatever his distraction, it had to be severed at the root. Regardless of this ailment's origins, Mycroft would deduce it. He'd discover its proper treatment posthaste once they reached this most recent crime scene and John agreed to give him an appointment. He only mildly wondered as they turned onto the predominantly corded off street, why he hadn't thought to simply call upon the doctor at his shared flat.

* * *

**AN:** _So~ What do you think? Normally my chapters are far longer than this, but I decided I needed a fun short chapter fic to play with when I want to pull my hair out. We'll see where this goes, for I have no plans really with this as of yet._

_Are you interested to see what is distracting our ailing Mycroft? Review me your answers and your postulations~! Por favor!_


	2. In Which John is Questioning his Sanity

**(I couldn't stand the typos... so I had to do more editing and reuploaded this chapter. Forgive me! This is why a beta is a writer's best friend.)**

**Disclaimer:** _I do not own BBC's Sherlock or any of the characters based off of Sir Conan Doyle's most excellent work. I make absolutely no money off of this._

**Warnings:** _This IS a story where men like other men. Not that anything happens in this chapter, but I felt like people should be forewarned before they try to spam me with flames._

* * *

John Watson repeatedly attempted to dissuade himself from considering his current predicament normal. For, to everyone else observing from the outside, he had a little less than recently shacked himself up with a madman, sociopath, and/or whack-job of the highest pedigree. It was a true assessment to a degree. The doctor admitted on more than one occasion that if Sherlock were anyone else but himself, he'd have been gone quicker than lightning out the door; hobbling still with a psychosomatic bum leg merrily back to the veterans' housing. Yet for all his genius intellect, predominantly poor performance of violin skill, and detrimental personality quirks (at least to the walls and furniture), Sherlock was the queerest, most fascinating creature John had ever had the privilege of befriending.

That thirst for science and adventure, and John's wonder at his best friend's skill kept even the most awkward of situations from making him think twice about his recent life decisions. He'd held a firm mantra repeating in his head whenever the more stressful or disturbing of instances presented themselves. Like now, as John held the mutilated skeleton of a thawing poodle. It smelled like dry ice and an acrid musk from being rained on for two nights, but otherwise it wasn't the first animal dissection John had ever seen.

There was a recent string of serial pet murders, a high number of them dogs, and today the criminal responsible for such a heinous accomplishment had graduated to now include humans on his repertoire. A dead poodle laying outside the back of the row-house had been the first indication something was amiss after the victim's neighbours noticed an abrupt change in habits. When individuals don't show up for dinners or bridge nights, people begin to talk (the norm for older British folk).

As to why John was holding up a dead poodle? Well it was the only way Sherlock could see the underside of the creature's body where more fleshy tissue than bone remained, of course. Never mind Watson was beginning to feel nauseous; he happened to have a great fondness for dogs. Never mind a three-day-old, wet corpse of a victim's rapidly thawing bodily fluids were beginning to seep into his crime scene suiting. It was all the more likely to soak into his favourite blue jumper beneath the semi-protective. Counting John as a former Captain in Her Majesty's service, Sherlock expected more out of his assistant than squeamishness in the face of science! So, John endured.

The doctor gave in to handling the thankfully not yet maggoty flesh of what presented an anatomy experiment gone very illegal and very wrong. The same, unfortunately, could be said about the victim still being photographed inside the house, but Watson chose not to think about that. It was better to remain focused in the immediate present.

"It's fascinating, Watson. Utterly so... the trick to keeping a corpse frozen without the significantly decreased temperatures of a freezer after a near complete dissection," Sherlock stated offhandedly to the surgeon in front of him as he prodded the meeting points between flesh and bone with a slim set of tongs.

"Don't you think it would be better if someone else, perhaps one of the forensics team members for instance, helped you examine this? I haven't taken an anatomy class in years, and not one criminology course! That, and we never used dogs in our lessons anyway..." John sighed, feeling a little out of his depth.

Sherlock scoffed in reply before verbalizing his response, "Anyone else besides you John, and the mental chatter would be far too irritating. I can generally block out your incessant internal mutterings..."

Watson chose not to be insulted at the statement. It wasn't said with any kind of malice. Sherlock might as well have been talking about the weather for all the vehemence he put behind it. After months of living together, John was hardly taken surprise by his friend's lack of tact.

"...Thus, I need someone like you to lift the poor pooch long enough to allow me the freedom of movement to examine it's underside. Besides, that insufferable Anderson is refusing to leave the perimeter of the woman's body 'til they've finished with their_ procedures_. This is, by far, the more interesting activity above twiddling our thumbs," the consulting detective ground out in that aristocratic lilt of his, acting all the more the inconvenienced body in this situation than was necessary.

Sherlock continued to pick and prod at the medium-sized skeleton for a minute more, humming and 'ahh'ing at different points. This was no doubt more play and pleasantry than actual deduction for the consulting detective, John thought ruefully. Sherlock liked to maintain a posturing air of detached importance throughout proceedings like these. Not only that, it was rare for Sherlock to find someone with such a thoroughly delicate dissection ability as his own. All these victims were doing was inciting the detective's insatiable curiosity. Even Watson could tell whomever did the work on the victims was no amateur.

It didn't bode well for the police if this was done by some psychotic killer with a professional background in either medicine or taxidermy. People like that were far too adaptable and resourceful. The biggest leap between experimentation and serial murder had been crossed with the killing of this seventy-six year old widower. Donovan had already made the off-handed comment that such cases like these were often the work of an individual obsessively fascinated with the macabre. Her pointed stare at Sherlock was a clear indication whom she thought was the most likely candidate. Before John could protest the insult, Sherlock had cut him off; only to later explain the futility of dissuading the woman. Anything the doctor would say would just insight the Detective Inspector to remind Dr. Watson of his extensive medical schooling.

Watson sighed audibly after another minute standing in the mild evening air. Half the street had been cut off for the use of the police. They were interviewing the neighbours and spending their time tracking the footpaths possible from the row-houses. It was undetermined how the perp had gotten in and out of the house without any damage done to the property, and how no one seemed to remember anything out of the ordinary in the last week. Someone had to have noticed a man or woman carrying the kind of equipment necessary to perform dissections, or at least someone making an excuse to purchase enough dry ice to freeze over the flesh of one poodle and an old lady?

"Oh hush now John, you're distracting me with your sighing about. If you didn't want to come I could have left you at the flat, but you insisted on the excuse to get away from your medical interns' paperwork," Sherlock drew out, frowning up at the shorter man from his hunched over position. John groaned a bit louder, not wanting to be reminded about that lovely development in his day-to-day career. He rolled his eyes heavenward before turning his gaze back down to watch Holmes' inspection again.

Bright blue eyes arrested him, inquiringly, but John was quick to cover his sudden fantastical thoughts of how they might look if heady with something else besides the fervour of crime solving. It was not the appropriate time or place to wonder about them closing in ecstasy. Watson thanked God and country, again, for his adept use of the steeled military façade Even if Sherlock could deduce that he was thinking something, he'd never guessed exactly what it was. John had tested the theory time and time again, and had regularly been proven right.

Sherlock, John was happy to find, was not entirely masterful in the art of deduction, most especially in the case of emotions directed solely at himself.

"I never said I wasn't grateful for the distraction, but when I said I thought we should go out for some fun I was considering the idea of which pub would be most appropriate. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind-"

"Oh god, what is_ he_ doing here...?" Sherlock abruptly cut John off when his eyes flicked a ways away. He stood to his full, arrogant height, glaring over the shorter man's shoulder. John's brow rose and he swiftly tilted his head in the same direction.

The tall, aristocratic figure of Mycroft Holmes leaned precariously against his characteristic umbrella rooted firmly into the asphalt. He was resplendent as always, in a dark bespoke suit probably worth more than a month's salary at the hospital. The government official was an uncommon occurrence at the crime scene and, unlike Sherlock, maintained the appropriate distance behind the police tape. Sherlock, with a pert scowl, stepped around John to make his way to his supposed arch enemy.

John dropped the poodle back to its original spot, carefully, before rushing after his partner (though not _that_ kind of partner).

Why was the elder Holmes gracing the crime scene this evening?

* * *

**AN:** _An we have another one! It's not very long, but I'm going by perspective. Normally I combine the perspectives and divide them with a breaking line, but I decided against it in this story. It'll allow, I think, others to cleanse their minds of the previous perspective clearer. _

_As Always,__** R&R~!**__ I love to hear what you all think about this story._


	3. In Which Mycroft Rather Likes the Sounds

**Disclaimer:** _I do not own BBC's Sherlock or any of the characters based off of Sir Conan Doyle's most excellent work. I make absolutely no money off of this. _

**Warnings**: _Again, I'm a flowery boi. I like men liking men. I also like women liking women. In bloody fact, I don't give a flying flip who you fancy so long as you don't shove your beliefs upon meself, got it? Nothing fanciful in this chapter except for Mycroft's tie._

* * *

"Mr. Holmes! Fancy seeing you here. What brings you about to the crime scene this evening? Need me to get Sherlock? He's running about 'round here somewhere..."

"No, that will be unnecessary, Detective. I shall simply wait here until he notices me, if he has not already. You wouldn't have called him in, anyway, lest there was something so important that you needed his services," Mycroft interjected, though kindly.

Not two minutes out of the car and the government official had been flagged down by DI Lestrade just before the edge of the police tape. The man had been speaking with three or four other detectives, his subordinates most likely. He might have been facing the direction away from the rest of the locale towards their audience to have immediately noticed Mycroft's arrival. It was uncanny how the inspector always seemed to appear for a chat whenever the elder Holmes deigned to visit Sherlock at his "workplace". Mycroft generally paid its regularity no mind, for the official more than enjoyed the man's company.

Brown eyes regarded him warmly. Mycroft felt his internal temperature rise suddenly and his heartbeat become sporadic ever so slightly. Even in this comfortable evening air was he to have another bout of symptoms? How thoroughly cumbersome that would be. Mycroft could only hope that the inspector wouldn't note it. It'd be too much for this man, even more than Sherlock, to notice his current inability to function normally.

"How unusual it is to find a Holmes interested in the convenience of others," Lestrade said jokingly, but he quickly covered any insult with, "As a friend of Sherlock's, I find it refreshing to know not all geniuses are quite to his flavor of social interactions."

"_Genii,_ but you are most correct in that. For all my brother's uncanny ability, he often misses the smallest of things. More often than not they go by the name of _courtesy_ and_ tact_," Mycroft reproved dryly, spinning the shaft of his favorite umbrella betwixt his palms. When the detective laughed so wholeheartedly like that, Mycroft found little he could do with himself but fiddle with anything in his hands (normally his umbrella), or try very hard to compose his features to a more dignified median.

It must be nice to feel comfortable with showing one's emotions so readily, Mycroft always thought, a little in wonder at the detective.

Even if the younger Holmes regularly insulted the whole of New Scotland Yard, DI Lestrade had somehow gained the respect of both the Holmes genii. Not that Sherlock would ever tell the man to his face, but he'd more than once stated aloud that Gregory Lestrade was by far the most competent of all the country's police forces. It was the highest assessment Mycroft's baby brother had given anyone to date, as a matter of fact. The man was not among the genius classified, yet he more than often made up for such differences with wits and social intelligence none of them possessed. He was wasted in police service, but was said to love it too much to give it up for another division.

"You could say that again. But it would be a waste of good entertainment, I think, if he was anything but himself. Keeps my people on their toes. That Dr. Watson's mellowed him out quite a bit, though, so I believe there is hope yet," the detective replied with a cheeky grin still stretching his face into a most agreeable, youthful expression.

Though the police force had turned DI Lestrade's hair prematurely grey (he wasn't that old), it had also kept him surprisingly fit after all these years. Mycroft had admitted to being far more conscious of his appearance after being acquainted with the serviceman. Sherlock had thought it was their mother that had finally convinced his brother to take better care of his once equally fit figure, but, secretly, it had been the elder detective's influence.

Lestrade had never said anything or indicated any wish for the government official to take more stock into his health. It wasn't in the man's character either to talk about something so personal. Besides, the two of them hadn't spoken more than the occasional chat over the years after an introduction very similar to the one Dr. Watson received months ago. Lestrade didn't know what Mycroft did besides working for the government (in some suspected high-ranking position). The man didn't even know how the elder Holmes took his tea, yet, somehow the two of them could be considered more than acquaintances by Mycroft's standards. It had been Gregory that said the word 'friend' first to a passing detective at crime scene like this one two years ago.

It was said so nonchalantly, Mycroft had had a moment of confusion before a warmth he'd never felt before burst in his chest. Holmes, sadly more often than not, rarely ever had anyone among such an intimate title.

Mycroft caught himself, again, lost in his memories and startled back to the present quite suddenly. How long had he been in his head? Had he been too silent? What did the detective think? How _entirely_ disconcerting!

Rapidly, the man's eyes blinked, trying to refocus on what was in front of him. Lestrade had turned his head away from facing him toward his right at some point, and Mycroft's gaze followed quickly after perusing the strong column of the detective's exposed neck.

"Ah, there's your errant brother now. Probably coming over to cause a ruckus. I'd ask you to keep whatever you're about to talk about from inciting him to blow up a third of the crime scene, again," DI Lestrade requested rather seriously, still looking towards the striding figure of Sherlock and the swiftly following form of one Dr. Watson decked out in proper gear. If it weren't for the smile dancing on the man's lips Mycroft would have felt rather reproached by the statement.

"Again, it was nothing I had said to have caused such an_ incident_. Even so, you were able to solve the case with little to no harm towards anyone but the guilty party," Mycroft replied smoothly with a small sniff. He leaned poised once more on the tip of his umbrella, fiddling slightly with his cuffs unconsciously.

Lestrade arrested him from his movements with a raised brow, clearly indicating his opinion. Of course the seriousness of the effect was lost by means of the smirk tugging at the corners of the inspector's firm mouth. The dancing humor of those auburn eyes once again reminded Mycroft of how easily the detective moved about in the world. It'd be so simple for a man like that to meet others, converse naturally with strangers, and go to places so normal like pubs or sporting events. He was probably wildly popular with women, as well.

Lestrade stepped back then, making room for the willowy figure of Mycroft's brother and his harangued assistant. It took such a movement for the elder Holmes to realize how very close the detective and he had been standing. For all that time they had been nary a half meter away from one another. The DI didn't seem to take notice himself, or didn't care to, by his body language.

Most likely such proximities were normal for the man who had many friends and colleagues. This was not the case at all for Mycroft, and he was caught off guard by how easily his defenses had allowed such a variable to become negligent. The moment had been lost for investigation, however, with the appearance of the most likely irritated Sherlock Holmes.

"You know, Detective, I _am_ able read lips. There is hardly anything explosive at this location. So even should my enemy incite me, never fear, nothing useful will be damaged," Sherlock huffed, most definitely irritated as he crossed his arms about in front. Watson beside him simply rolled his eyes, smiling a greeting towards the elder Holmes. Dr. Watson was steadily also becoming someone that Mycroft found himself readily speaking to, if only to get around his own brother's childish antics.

That hearty laughter was drawn from the detective once more, reverberating the expanse of the street along with the rest of the noise of the city. Lestrade smacked the affronted younger Holmes' shoulder merrily before he looked to separate from their circular grouping. Mycroft found himself reluctant to see the man go.

"I'll leave you three to get back to work. I'm sure Donovan has gotten back with the teams checking the back alleys. Mr. Holmes, take care of yourself. I'll look forward to speaking with you again," the man said jovially over his shoulder with a wave as he walked away down the rest of the blocked off street. Mycroft caught himself watching the receding figure a second longer than necessary.

"So, Mycroft, what brings you about to pollute my mental clarity this evening?" Sherlock asked, a look in his eye telling Mycroft he'd noticed what his brother had. Another look, this one up and down his brother's form, and Sherlock silently indicated he'd noticed something off with Mycroft today.

_Blast _it all_._

* * *

**AN:** _So this is turning out to be rather fun to write. The chapters keep getting longer though. *sigh* But this is normal for someone like myself. I could go on for a while longer with Mycroft's perspective, but I decided it would be best to stop there and force myself to turn back to another person's perspective. _

**R&R as always~!** _Do you all like Mycroft's assessment of Lestrade? Am I staying in character? Do tell! _


	4. In Which John is Questioning his Coffee

**Disclaimer:** _I do not own BBC's Sherlock or any of the characters based off of Sir Conan Doyle's most excellent work. I make absolutely no money off of this._

**Warnings:**_ Mentions of psychology, war, and extreme cases of adrenaline. It's nothing terribly scary, and I doubt there are any delicate people in the audience at this point. Especially you freaks that actually watch Sherlock (*throws confetti at his own party*)._

* * *

"No. No._ Absolutely _not!"

"But Sherlock! It's not much more than a physical assessment and a few mental exercises over a couple of weeks, if that. It's not like it will take that long, nor will it really be all that complicated to accomplish. Surely I can pause a bit between work and the case to help your brother out," John said, exasperated, sitting heavily upon his normal chair in the corner of their living room.

Sherlock himself was pacing about the length of the room from the window to the kitchen. He was only able to do so because Watson had put his foot down not three days ago and they had managed to clean the flat to a decency they'd not seen in a long time. Between the points in the brilliant man's pacing, John glanced repeatedly and apologetically at Mycroft situated on the edge of the old couch, poised as a lord in court. His face was far too guarded and that didn't settle well with the doctor.

"But it'd take up time! Time we neither have nor I feel the need to give to him! And why is he in our home! He has half the doctors in the country at his beck and call, with the other half sitting prettily on standby, and he chooses you out of all of them? Why hasn't he gone to others?" Sherlock whined, his temper tantrum escalating slightly more.

They'd been going at this for thirty minutes at this point. Mycroft had offered them a ride back to their flat after they'd gotten all they could from the crime scene. John was forced to accept for them seeing as the younger Holmes was being stubborn. Sherlock only agreed to enter the sleek vehicle after the doctor practically shoved him into it.

As far as John knew, yes, there was a rivalry between the siblings, but this kind of petulancy was a bit much in the ex-soldier's eyes. This was the sort of attitude he only saw while visiting his young niece and nephews. In all the Holmes brothers claimed to be (ever intelligent and holier than thou), they both were surprisingly childish when it came to the other in any which way. For though it was Sherlock who was shrieking about like a banshee, it was Mycroft sitting on the couch picking non-existent lint off his coat that was inciting the younger Holmes to even more dramatics. John almost wished they'd just duke it out and get it over with.

Really, such immaturity.

"Ok, I understand Sherlock, I get what you're saying. But if you would bloody well sit down!"- _before I stoop to your level and throw a pillow at your head-_- "We can hear more than five sentences from Mycroft and use a cool, clinical head to figure out what we're going to do!" John finally raised his voice.

It had the necessary effect, _thank_ _god_, and swiftly Sherlock stomped over to the skull resting on the ottoman to stroke it while he hunkered down like reprimanded youth. Even while saying nothing, the man could say so much. It made John want to roll his eyes to the heavens to beg for patience. That frown was still marring those far too fetching features, but John made the effort to drag his gaze back to the elder Holmes.

"So, as you were saying, Mycroft, why exactly do you need my help? I'm sure there are others who have far more experience and training to help someone such as yourself..."

"But you see, that is the issue. I have been to the best this country has to offer. I've seen the doctors who have been my primary physicians since before I could talk. I have also been to the leading medical practices around. All their testing, and musing, and prodding have got them returning to me stating nothing productive. I simply 'have one of the healthiest bodies in all Britain, especially for my age range'. And while they caution me on losing any more weight than I already have, maybe even seeking out to further my yoga and meditation practice a little more than the once daily, they believe nothing is wrong with me," the smoothly crisp cadence, a little deeper and posher than Sherlock's, stated, exasperated.

Mycroft finally let some of the worry show on his face, giving in to his truer feelings. John noticed, then, how quite gaunt-looking the man was beginning to look. It was hard to tell how trim the elder Holmes was underneath his layered suiting after all. John had the same issue with Sherlock at times, the doctor remembered, and had to pay exceptional attention to the younger man lest his health really start to deteriorate because of poor diet and sleep. More than once there were tiffs between the flatmates about calorie intake and the effects on mental clarity as determined by eating a regiment of balanced nutrition. Coffee, tea, and toast did not constitute one's daily allotment of calories, no matter how vehemently Sherlock attested to their virtues.

John, like any physician with a head on his shoulders, should have seen it sooner. He felt rather daft for not noticing. The face, after all, was the last feature of any figure to show signs of weight issues. Besides bare hands, the slightly older man showed nary a patch of skin aside from face and fingers (and only when not wearing gloves). Mycroft's skin was as pale as Sherlock's, and just as clearly fresh, and hid most illnesses quite well. But there was an exhaustion apparent about the eyes not normally seen in a man supposedly so healthy. So, clearly there was something amiss, but the variables were just well disguised.

John could determine the signs of fatigue quicker than most, even more experienced civilian doctors, and in damn near any condition given his military background. On more than one occasion it had been him stating the hard line for more than one member of his squadron when he knew they couldn't go any further on nothing but half-rations and adrenaline. This, he suddenly realized, was not much different. The ex-soldier felt the need to kick himself repeatedly. How stupid of him not to connect the two situations together!

"What makes you different, Dr. Watson, than the rest of them is that you know people like me. You understand people in high-stress careers, and you have banked their life and your's on your ability to determine when to give them a push or put the brakes on. You've even been forced to operate surgery under live fire. I have read your files," -_how unsurprising_- "and your records state plainly that one of the reasons you were so sought after was this skill. I might not be in a war zone filled with guns and bombs, but I assure the circles I travel in might be better traveled if such honest things were permitted," Mycroft stated plainly, his gaze boring into John's.

This was not a man intimidated by much, the doctor felt deep in his bones. Mycroft Holmes was used to espionage, international delegations, and whose daily decisions might even determine the fate of the country John swore under oath to protect many, many years ago. Smaller men would quake under such pressure, but even Sherlock couldn't balk at how strong his brother was. Looking over at the man in question, John saw that this must be so.

It occurred to the ex-soldier that maybe Sherlock was more worried about his big brother than he was willing to let on. The siblings' relationship was hardly a normal one. Had the tantrum been more about not understanding what was happening to one's sibling, than actually being about the inconvenience of and not wanting to share one's things (Dr. Watson), John wouldn't be surprised.

"Then why not get another army doctor? There are others decorated more than I am, and many of them are between deployment or are honorably discharged..." John asked calmly. It wasn't like he was trying to get out of helping the elder Holmes, but a man had to know the full reason of things before jumping into something that could prove to be a taxing challenge only yet to be diagnosed.

Across from both John and the broody Sherlock, Mycroft shifted, looking a bit uncomfortable with what he was about to say,

"I'm asking you because... well, because Sherlock_ trusts _you. You know him, and he knows you. That doesn't normally happen to a Holmes. We aren't..." the slightly older man trailed off then, adjusting his grip on his ever present umbrella. John felt movement to his left and glanced over to his flatmate. Sherlock's face was a thunderous storm, intense, and rather frightening. The gaze was not directed at him, thankfully, but at the man's older brother.

"We are not the most socially acceptable of creatures, Dr. Watson. Sherlock does not even try to fit in with the hubbub of today's society. Never has, and probably never will," -Sherlock scoffed, but Mycroft ignored him- "I have a little more need of this ability, and have spent many years grooming my social graces to allow me to maneuver about. I am able to glean what I want and when I need it due to this ability, but it is far from a natural course of action for myself. I have to try. Thankfully not nearly as much as I used to, but it does not change the fact that it is still a conscious effort.

"Someone else, some other army physician, or even a proper psychiatrist, as this is looking more and more of needing, wouldn't understand this. They would not understand us," Mycroft raised his palm towards John before the man could make his protests. Was it that plain to see that he didn't think he was nearly as special as this official was making him out to be? He was just John Watson, ex-soldier, and a simple surgeon at the local hospital. Nothing near close to what Mycroft was implying.

"No, Dr. Watson, I don't think you quite understand. With you, Sherlock is normal. Or at least, he's viewed as a little more human by the masses. You connect people like us and them together in a way that I've never been able to accomplish. I know full well that I intimidate people, Sherlock does too. We both happen to feel contempt for the populous' quick determination of us and the few individuals similar in breed, but we cannot do anything about their reactions. Not alone, we can't."

Mycroft stood, setting his carriage in a rigid fashion, his height imposing. It must have taken a lot for him to come to this conclusion, John thought, a little in awe. Knowing Sherlock, speaking as plainly as this must have been like pulling one's teeth one by one.

"I'm not asking you to halt your life, Captain, but to assist me at your convenience. I'll insist to not impose myself upon you, but I have no where else to go. Seeking help out of the country is out of the question given the necessity for discretion. Even the most secure facility can be compromised; I knowing that truth more than most. You are the best choice, and at this moment the_ only_ choice. You have the training, you have the understanding, and you have the connection. I'm unable to find those three attributes in anyone else in the whole of Great Britain. Now,_ will you help me_?"

There was a drawn out pause in the eclectic living room, only broken by the muted sounds of the London night time through the thin barriers of stone and glass. Otherwise, it was so quiet one could have heard a pin drop. John came back to the present quickly, blinking rapidly to quell the adrenaline rush such a speech had invoked within him. He'd not felt that in a while, he thought to himself with a funny grin stretching the length of his lips.

_These Holmes men_, John thought with a laugh inside his head, _they really know how to get a man's blood boiling, rushing about in one's veins so rapidly one might as well be high off of caffeine!_

"_Well_..." the doctor said aloud, finally, feeling a little funny, even breathless after such a confession, with those intense stares directed entirely at his face, "When you put it like that, what else am I to do? Where would you like to start? I've got no plans, and it's only 9 o'clock. I'm sure we can make some sort of progress in the next two hours..."

* * *

**AN:****_ I LOVE ALL MY REVIEWERS._**_ Seriously, you all make me feel so fabulous. I love hearing from you all so, please, tell me more! What do you like best so far? What do you like least? Over all, I mean. It can be anything from plot line, characterization, style, or chapter length even. In fact, how do you like the chapter length? Should I make them longer? Does it really matter?_

**Preview (because you guys deserve it) of next Chapter**: _Mycroft without a shirt on, WHAT? And what the bloody hell is Sherlock doing with flowers, whiskey, and a petulant frown about his face?_


	5. In Which Mycroft is Rather Shocked

**Disclaimer****_: _**_I do not own BBC's Sherlock or any of the characters based off of Sir Conan Doyle's most excellent work. I make absolutely no money off of this._

**Warnings:** _None really. Men can like men or women? Same goes for women?_

* * *

It'd taken another twenty minutes to convince Sherlock to vacate the premises. Mycroft had nothing against his brother (aside from the _obvious_), and he certainly wasn't a prudent man, but Dr. Watson had noticed his hesitancy to perform the physical aspect of this examination with the youngest brother present. Thus, like no man before him could, the clever doctor managed to kick the Sherlock out under the ruse of food and fresh air.

Mycroft was normally a man of few words. Verbally, his vocabulary to express himself was naturally strained. His grateful expression was, thankfully, interpreted correctly by John as he settled his light coat and umbrella on the rack by the door. John had jogged into his room down the hall a minute before to grab pen and paper to take notes. His doctor's bag (a recent gift from his old platoon) was already placed on the clear kitchen table ready for use. The elder Holmes had divested himself of his suit jacket and tie by the time John had found everything he needed.

"Now, I hope you're not as finicky about check-ups like Sherlock is, or I'll insist upon strapping you to the chair..." Watson said not unkindly while he got out his stethoscope and a few other basic instruments. Mycroft smiled a little to himself as he pulled his shirt tails out of his slacks,

"No, I have always been the more behaved of the two of us in things such as this."

"I see. Well, I'll just need to run the normal readings: blood pressure, heart rate, weight and measurements, etcetera. And while I do that you can tell me more about your daily life. We'll figure out what this all is and get you patched up and back on the job at a hundred percent," John stated conversely, finally looking up from organizing his things to see a disrobed from the waist up Mycroft Holmes.

The shock was evident on the doctor's face and the government official felt suddenly self-conscious of his figure all over again as he sat in the kitchen chair. A good long couple of heartbeats thrummed between them before a heightened color was particularly evident on both their cheeks. John looked far more embarrassed of the two of them, but the blush was far more visible on Mycroft's pale complexion. A strangled, garbled noise escaped from the doctor's throat before rubbed his face vigorously with his calloused hands,

"Oh, _bloody hell_, Mycroft. Don't be nervous. I was just a bit caught off guard. Your clothes hide you quite well is all! They weren't kidding when they said you were fit. And you've lost more weight have you? About how much in what span of time?" John asked, recovering quickly as he wrapped a BP monitor around the older man's fairly defined bicep.

Mycroft hesitated a moment, collecting himself, before replying, "I started at seventeen stones (238lbs) a little over eighteen months ago. During the course of a year's time I dropped about three and a half stone (50lbs) and had maintained that weight, but began losing more. It was gradual enough in the beginning that I didn't worry. In fact my physicians thought it well of me to slope to a comfortable twelve and a half stone (175lbs) four months ago at my last physical..." Mycroft trailed off then, his reticence well noted by the man in front of him, checking his pulse. John didn't say anything, thankfully, and let man simply speak.

"Then, six weeks ago the weight began dropping too rapidly. I did not notice it, but my assistant did. I finally thought to weigh myself. So, a week ago I visited my regular physician in the city. I'm only ten stones now (140lbs). At a height of one-hundred and eighty-one centimeters, I have lost roughly seven stones (100lbs) in such a relatively short period of time. Given my age, Mummy is dreadfully worried, as are the doctors in a passive way..."

"I know this might seem like a redundant question, but what do you eat in a day?" John interrupted the silence with his question, rapidly taking notes on the lined paper with thick pen strokes. Mycroft was happy to note that Dr. Watson was like many of his counterparts in the medical field: they all had atrociously illegible handwriting.

"I eat well enough, with plenty of filtered water and tea. I'll eat cleanly with only a little indulgence in dark chocolate and the occasional glass of wine as is required of my station and at functions where denying the service of liquor could be easily interpreted as an offense. I don't generally eat out, unless the meal is impressed upon me by my associates. I'll choose a seafood or salad entree then," the elder Holmes replied as the cool smoothness of a stethoscope was pressed at various points of his chest. He paused in his speaking to breath deeply in and out as directed by the ex-soldier sitting opposite him.

"And exercise? Clearly you must have had a relatively strict regime to lose the weight you have? Even with a healthy diet, your metabolism would have appreciated the jump-start," John mentioned, making more notes on his yellowed pad.

Mycroft nodded and replied, "I had a personal trainer for seven months and a small gym at my current abode installed. After the routine was established I worked well on my own. I run five to fifteen miles on a treadmill daily, depending on how long I have to write out my correspondences with Anthea's assistance. I do yoga and meditation in the early morning, and lift weights two to three times a week. I find exercise to be quite invigorating, honestly," he finished, actually smiling a little at the admission.

And he did, actually, really enjoy the daily ablutions. The endorphin secretion might also have something to do with it, but Mycroft liked to believe he was above addictions at this point in his life; even ones as positive as the "high" created by intensive muscle movement. But for such a relatively good thing in his life, his apathy towards everything else did not add up, nor did his mood directly after the endorphins finished their course through his circuitry.

John hummed to himself, making more notations in that rather endearing hand script. He tapped the edge of his pen repeatedly against the table, thinking deeply to himself for a goodly moment as Mycroft's temperature was calibrated and measured. When the small device beeped at the end of its cycle blue eyes (such a deep blue) glanced once again the length of Mycroft's seated figure, as if trying to deduce a puzzle.

"...I could get blood work done, and a couple other tests at the hospital, but I'm not willing to waste time and effort to pull up nothing, as I suspect I will find," Watson thought aloud for the elder Holmes' benefit, "If all these other doctors can't find anything physically wrong with you, and none of my initial assessments show me anything less, then I'll go with my original suspicion. You might not like what I have to say, nor what I'll need to ask..." the doctor stated, somewhat apologetically, but still very firmly.

Mycroft nodded, buttoning his shirt once more. The cooler night air was getting to him a bit, even in a normally quite warm household,

"I wouldn't ask for your assistance if I didn't think I could take on any challenge you placed before me," he replied smoothly.

John Watson would understand his conviction. The man didn't quite know how much there was at stake, but he could at least infer that there were significant consequences should this downhill depression continue. If all else, Mycroft would hope that John would feel obligated to help where he could if not because of his chosen profession, then at least because the man seated opposite the doctor was an integral part to his flatmate's life. Regardless of how Sherlock's and his relationship might seem to the outside observer, Mycroft never questioned whether his brother cared for him. The boy simply presented that love in a most interesting way.

Watson ceased his fidgeting. He uncrossed his legs, planting each sole firmly on the linoleum floor, sat straight, and looked the elder Holmes dead in the eye, "I need you to tell me what's been going on up there," -he gestured at Mycroft's brow- "there inside that head of your's. What you've been thinking about. What you feel all the time, and every day, and how much the intensity is. Do you have depression? Do you have elation? What about your past? Is something happening now that bothered you when you were younger? These are intrusive questions, and you won't be able to finagle out of them or skim over the details because you feel uncomfortable discussing how you feel about something..."

John sighed, and ran his hand through his hair, musing the flaxen locks haphazardly, "You will have to be completely candid. You speak about being distracted, but what is distracting you? You talk about gazing off into the distance for hours at a time, but you don't tell me where your gaze goes? Do you even know? You Holmes men are intense creatures, and I'd bet every belonging I own that that intensity, regardless of your opinion on feelings, can translate into profound emotional pools. Sherlock claims to be a sociopath, and I believe him most of the time for that to be honestly true. It's easier that way..."

The elder man could entirely agree with John on the self-definitions defining his younger brother. It was easier for the world to believe that Sherlock was incapable of empathy, or emotions at all in some cases. Most of the time it was easier for Sherlock himself to believe that as well. Less work, and less disappointment when the world turns its back on you. John Watson was a normal person (for the most part), and that normalcy meant he was capable of maneuvering great distances within society Sherlock would forever be barred from.

"...But there are times... I think... it's not that he's a sociopath, unable to define emotion or translate it into a viable variable in his psyche, but a man who has a depth and comprehension that modern psychology just doesn't have a word for. He cannot be defined."

John finished speaking, and the man's gaze turned inward a beat too long. And while the ex-soldier continued to speak about how Mycroft might feel distressed in the next coming weeks (he'd need to persevere through them so that the doctor might cure him of whatever ailment was distracting him from living), something very profound occurred quite abruptly to the elder Holmes:

Dr. John Watson was in love with Sherlock Holmes. And, _damn it all,_ the man didn't even know it.

* * *

**AN:** _So the second half of the chapter preview in the previous chapter's AN will come to fruition later. I felt the end of this chapter come about and didn't want to break the style of the chapter to abruptly change into a new perspective (which would be the only way I think I could include the image I had in my head). I kind of like only seeing the conversation through a heavily characterized style, one at a time. What do you all think? _

_As always, please _**Read and Review**_! I love all of your replies and they make me terribly happy to catch every time I see a new one. Each one is precious to me. Thank you._


	6. In Which John is Questioning Feelings

**Disclaimer:** _I do not own BBC's Sherlock or any of the characters based off of Sir Conan Doyle's most excellent work. I make absolutely no money off of this._

**Warnings:** _Drama Llama on his way?_

* * *

John could tell Mycroft was getting a little overwhelmed.

He'd suspected that, unlike Sherlock, the elder brother wouldn't be too keen on making his personal opinions and emotions public domain between anyone; even friends. And neither of the two brothers had ever discussed hardly anything from their youth. John didn't even know if their father was still alive. Given the amount of time it'd taken for Sherlock to admit to having an older brother, he wouldn't be surprised if a father or other siblings were off in some distant part of England. Not an entirely preposterous notion, indeed.

Those thoughts aside, Mycroft's face hadn't really recovered from his initial shock a few minutes before. He was staring at the surgeon with a mild fish-eyed façade and had a look about him of a man who couldn't believe John's seriousness. Poor bloke, probably had never thought about therapy in all his life up until this point. Not only that, but English people rarely, if ever, discussed their intimate feelings and memories with anyone outside of the immediate family, and even then never in a public place outside of the family homes. Control and appearances took precedence.

John wasn't going to kid himself, he was no psychologist. He was a surgeon. Those were entirely two different breeds of birds. Frankly, he felt a little more nervous than his own face and voice tone showed. The last time he'd done any work with a psychologist's mindset had been in med school, and only because it was a requirement to graduate. Otherwise, John had avoided that department the whole of his school tenure and residency like the plague. It was a necessary evil then, and, to be honest, he had no bloody idea why he was jumping into this now by choice!

Unfortunately, this was an issue found entirely in Mr. Holmes' head. That John was certain of. The signs were all there. He'd seen this plenty of times in the army (and it may have been why soldiering was so cathartic). The origin of Mycroft's affliction was still unknown, for though it was apparently pathological, its source was still undefined. It was surprising to find such a thing in such an intelligent man, but Holmeses were entirely capable of defying logic.

Sherlock was the most prime example of this anomaly, but it was entirely too interesting to find it also in the elder sibling. Would their father or mother act as such? Watson was putting his money on that the brothers' father, should he still be living, would be the parent who attributed such an ability.

"I want you to catalogue your life, Mycroft. Start with your earliest memories as a kid. What were the significant, defining moments of your life? What did you feel when they occurred?" John began explaining as he lead the still gob-smacked elder brother to the scale in the loo. It wasn't the greatest scale money could buy, but it gave a relativity that would work for their purposes.

"While you do that I'd like for you to make a daily journal. What's going on right now, mostly. Anything can go in the journal. Thoughts, ideas, worries, daily events, anything really. I'm also going to insist that you switch your weight training and running schedules with each other, with no more than thirty minutes in each module. Your calorie intake needs to go up by a third to double. We want to put you back on that happy medium at somewhere between twelve and fourteen stone (148-190 lbs), preferably in the mid-range of that," John described as Mycroft meticulously redressed as he scribbled out more notes on that lined paper pad. He'd really need to get a proper notebook to record all his observations for the long run, John mused.

"_So..._" Mycroft's voice ran softly throughout the open space of kitchen and living room. It made Watson jump a bit, not having heard it in the last seven minutes or so. The tall, lean figure had covered himself once more in that misleading garb, standing on the meridian between the kitchen and the living room. John had to admit he felt a bit of a loss for the fine figure hidden beneath. Maybe, once the right muscle mass was gained back, he'd be able to convince Mycroft to go shopping for more casual clothes. Something a bit trimmer and not so concealing as a vested suit and tie ensemble.

"I'll be able to help your work by writing a diary and a memoir?" the elder Holmes asked, and John had to smile a bit to himself. Leave it to a Holmes to put such an official sounding name on a simple journal.

"If you'd like to call them that, then sure. They don't nearly have to be as extensive as that sounds. It's more like a noting of memories and making observations. Kind of like a journal for an experiment. You're giving me concentrated data to make my analysis with, make sense?" John shouted slightly as he ran to hide his notebook somewhere he might keep Sherlock from finding it for at least half a day.

"I see... well then, is there anything else you'll be needing from me this evening. I am certain Sherlock is on his way any minute. He'd never let me keep you for more than three quarters of an hour," Mycroft mentioned eye-balling John, still with that curious expression.

John sighed, and rolled his eyes, "Yes, yes, he's probably rambling along the dark streets of London causing a havoc. Probably thinks you're torturing me, or worse, boring me lunacy."

Mycroft played along for a minute, looking affronted, before his features smoothed out to a prim sort of snobbery he was want to exude, "And am I, Dr. Watson, _boring_you...?"

John walked the slightly older man to the door with a lopsided grin plastered on his face, "Dreadfully so, I'm afraid. We'll have to do better to appease the worries of your younger brother, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft flipped the end of his umbrella into his hand, rolling the length of it in his grasp for a moment before settling,

"I shall endeavour the feat. Shall I tell Anthea to email you for your schedule? The only time I'll have truly free is a few evenings next week," the government official stated, clopping down the stairs in a very dignified fashion.

John followed him down to the front door, once again opening it for the elder Holmes. Somehow he wasn't surprised to see the black Mercedes parked on the curb, awaiting its master's return. The driver was standing with the car door ajar and the doctor could just make out the LCD screen of the man's assistant's blackberry. When had Mycroft had the time to call for the transport, John didn't know, but he wasn't going to question its efficiency. Made life a little easier for him considering he really didn't know when Sherlock was going to show up again, and it would be better if the man's brother was well out of the vicinity before he gained sight of him.

"That'll work for me. Same time, same place mostly. We'll go over your journal then and I'll retake measurements. If Anthea needs any assistance with food or exercise tell her to ring me. I know quite a bit and a few random things that might boost your calorie intake, or ease your calorie burning down to a more manageable measure," John mentioned. He was very well versed in gaining and losing weight due to the strictness of his former profession.

Mycroft shook his hand firmly and stepped over to his ride, before driving off to god knows where, the man simply stated, "Do tell Sherlock not to worry. His _arch-enemy_isn't going to die on him so readily..."

Thinking the statement odd, but somehow rather endearing, John nodded and the car merged back into the slow traffic of their relatively busy street.

Before returning to his shared flat, John took a long moment to stare up at the sky; taking a deep breath or two. He truly did wonder what exactly this all could be. The basic issues were covered, and he certainly trusted the elder Holmes (who was far more responsible of the two) to follow the doctor's orders. But, to be honest, managing someone's daily functions and giving them instructions to write their feelings down on a few bits of paper wasn't the most profound thing he'd ever instructed. Next week would be the beginning of the hard work, and he was looking forward to it only because he really did care about the older man.

Scrubbing his face with his free hand, Watson traipsed back up the stairs to 221B Baker St. to await the arrival of his flatmate. He wondered, ruefully if he could lock all the doors between him and the younger man, or maybe feigned sleep or death, he might save himself from the explosion he knew was going to happen in the next hour or two.

If Sherlock was dependable on anything, it was that he would always be dramatic.

* * *

**AN:** _OMG. You guys. You're awesome. I've just about reached the 2,000 view mark. I'm so happy. I didn't think people would take this story seriously, or even really like it at all. What started as a drabble for me (probably not going to be more than a chapter or two), suddenly is going to be something I take very seriously. I'm hoping to keep up my three day posting. These chapters aren't terribly hard to write lengthwise. I hope you all are enjoying the story thus far. _

**READ AND REVIEW~!** _The more you review the more I want to write. You guys really do boost my spirits! _


	7. In Which John is Really Overwhelmed

**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own BBC's Sherlock or any of the characters based off of Sir Conan Doyle's most excellent work. I make absolutely no money off of this._

**Warnings**:_The Llama has arrived. Heavy mentions of alcohol. I don't endorse this kind of behavior. I don't mind the occasional drink, but alcohol DOES kill brain cells. And you don't grow those back. So instead, drink responsibly so you have the ability to read these words by the time you get to seventy._

* * *

John awoke from dozing on the couch when a door slammed downstairs. There was a mighty raucous up the stairs to the second floor, and then the scrapping of keys at the flat's door. Quickly he stood, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece as he scrubbed his face.

It was nearly three in the morning.

He'd been out like a light for close to four hours. Whomever was at the door was clearly successful at getting the key in the slot for it shuddered open under the weight of unsteady feet. John himself strode swiftly to the doorway to catch the wood before it slammed into the wall,_ again_. Ms. Hudson was already on them about the nicks and holes in the walls.

Without really registering it, Watson suddenly found himself arms-full of Holmes, who was pissed as all hell could be.

"Oh god, Sherlock-"

"J-John, I've found the most fantastical way to combine the harshness of whiskey with the smoothness of cider!" Sherlock drawled hotly into his flatmates jawbone, even totally smashed his cultured voice was as smooth as ever.

While not one too concerned with PDA between friends, the man rarely ever gave his best mate this much attention. Not that John could really appreciate it at the moment given the circumstances. 'Twas rather awkward holding up the taller man by the pits of his delicately long arms. Said limbs were twining about his shoulders sloppily, creating a vice-like grip starkly contrasting the dead weight of the rest of the youthful aristocrat. Even with a continued appreciation for exercise, the height difference between the two of them was far too great for John to manage.

Stumbling, the doctor adjusted his grip and fumbled backwards, rotating their trajectory to sprawl them about the sette. Of course, Watson miscalculated slightly and still managed to be arms full of Holmes, only this time incapacitated beneath the man sprawled over his chest and lap.

Sherlock, in his abysmally drunk state, didn't really notice the inconvenience and had proceeded to continue his loud garbling about the mixology of certain fruit ciders, particularly of the hearty apple variety. When John had stumbled over the coffee table, he merely gurgled up with laughter, finding the whole lot of it hilarious apparently.

"Sherlock, mate, you're absolutely smashed! What the bloody hell have you been drinking? You said so yourself you have a high tolerance for alcohol, so what gives?" John nearly shouted, trying, fruitlessly, to adjust his position to an upright one where he could better navigate the situation at hand. No such luck. Even with how thin the younger man was, dead weight was dead weight, and Sherlock didn't see it fit to hold his own at the moment.

"Four shots of tequila. Three shots of straight whiskey, that ruddy gold kind you go on about. Two Blue Moons, and a spritz of something girly this gentleman bought me. A Bloody Mary, with extra paste. One glass of chardonnay, again by some random person, though I think a lady this time. Couldn't tell in the lighting, you know. Moved on to the Jack Daniel's, then the bourbon... oh god the bourbon. I don't remember how much of the bourbon," -the consultant had the audacity to begin _nuzzling_John's neck at this point- "I think I changed bars then, can't be sure, then on to the ciders and hard ales. This lovely chap at the bar tossed up the cocktail I told you about, the one with the sour apple and the cider. The shot of whiskey in that is purely Indian! They make it with grain and molasses. Sort of a rum more than a whiskey, but still ever so biting. It was glorious," Sherlock managed to list it all as if talking about the seasons or some other such trifle thing.

With each new liquor John had a harder time of it keeping a calm demeanor. The man drank his weight in booze! If he wasn't dead already, Watson would have assumed the man before him was going to get alcohol poisoning or die choking on his own vomit in his sleep. He had to get him into the bathroom as soon as possible. John would punch him in the stomach if he had to to induce vomiting. He already knew there wasn't any way to get the fool to a hospital this late at night without a right fuss. Sherlock would never go through with it and he'd never forgive John if he forced him (as if one could force a _Holmes_to do anything). So, since stomach pumping was out of the options, induced vomiting it was then.

"Get the bloody hell off me, Sherlock! You stink to high heaven, and you are not going to bed filled with this much alcohol. To the bathroom with you, you right fool!"

"Yes, _dear_, just as soon as the room stops spinning about," his flatmate groaned into his shoulder.

John was getting really tired of being a pillow. He was getting even more tired of being the pillow to his flatmate. And, even more, he was getting tired of being a pillow to the man he was at this point unhealthily attracted to, even if he was piss ass drunk off his rocker.

* * *

**AN: **_So I'm terribly sorry for the late update. It's pretty short, but it's better than nothing. And I'll make up for lost time by posting another right tomorrow. _

_**READ AND REVIEW~!** I LOVE YOU ALL. : O_


	8. In Which John is Really Kind of Cheeky

**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own BBC's Sherlock or any of the characters based off of Sir Conan Doyle's most excellent work. I make absolutely no money off of this._

**Warnings**: _A little drama, but nothing really hardcore. Boys can like boys or girls, again. And I fancy John's a bit bi-sexual. It's not uncommon for siblings in the same family to have similar sexual orientations. I have a friend whose sister is gay, while he is pansexual._

* * *

Thirty minutes later the situation was only marginally better. He'd hauled the idiot to the toilet, and Sherlock had been sick (thankfully without any extraneous help on John's part). Fifteen minutes after that he'd convinced the fool to brush his teeth and drink about a quart of water. The worst of the drunkenness was over, but Holmes still babbled about anything and everything that caught his fancy. Endearing, but not conducive to passing out any time soon.

And here Watson was, stirring a cup of ginger-lemon tea at the request of his flat mate still holed up in the man's bed chamber. He was going to have to ask Sherlock what he was thinking. He'd never consumed that quantity of alcohol before in all the duration of their friendship. He'd done some crazy things for his experiments, but tonight took the cake. This kind of behaviour was not safe, whatever the reason, and Sherlock was just going to have to give it up before it became a habit. He was lucky to have a doctor as a flatmate, and one that gave two shits about him. John more than anyone knew what it was like to wake up from a bender all alone.

John walked the distance between the kitchen and Sherlock's room with a trudging step. He was tired, and very worried. Mildly overworked too, if he thought about it. It apparently took a great deal of energy to deal with both Holmes brothers in one day. It'd been so long he'd forgotten.

"Sherlock, can you sit up at all?" He asked the lumpy figure underneath some tatty blankets. For a man who dressed so well, Sherlock certainly didn't give a damn about the state of his blankets. Expensive taste in clothing and food didn't translate into expensive taste in bedding. That duvet must be at least forty years old.

"No...yes... it's what, Tuesday now? What time?" Sherlock grumbled sliding up the length of his bed to flop onto a miniature hill of pillows. He adjusted his position a bit, refolding his housecoat about him as best he could. Then the man stretched his hands out, gesturing for the cup of tea. John was hesitant to give it to him, but conceded when Sherlock shot him a withering look.

"It's three forty-five in the morning on Tuesday You are correct, why?" he inquired, sitting on a chair he'd dragged into the cluttered bedroom. He could count on his hands how many times he'd been in here, but he promised himself to visit more if only to help clean up the mess more regularly. Knowing Sherlock, his insistence would somehow throw off the balance the man had established. If he just cleaned the damn room without Sherlock's knowledge he was sure he'd get an earful about not being able to find anything anymore. That was the usual excuse with the living room.

"I merely needed to calculate the time I require to burn through the effects of the alcohol before going back on this serial killer's trail. I feel I'll make a breakthrough soon. This fool left too many hints at this last crime scene. Plus, what with the murder of that old woman, I now have a legitimate reason to hound Scotland Yard for access to files. Not that I needed their permission, but it's far easier for them if I follow a trifle of their procedures so they can actually use whatever I uncover as evidence," Sherlock drawled on, his cadence still slurred a bit but otherwise entirely back to normal.

He took a deep swig of the tea before continuing his thought process, "I can get back to it post haste once these annoying symptoms wear off. I thought to be kind to Lestrade and wait until six o'clock to-"

"No."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock shot over at his flatmate cum assistant with an incredulous look, "What was that?"

"I said _no._It's a no, Sherlock. You won't be going anywhere for the next eight hours at least..."

"But-"

"There are no 'but's about it. Do you realize how much alcohol you imbibed in the last five hours? Do you know what that can do to your body, to your brain for God's sake? You're lucky you didn't get poisoning! You're a waif, a tall bloody waif, but your mass is still too little to properly process that amount of liquor without some serious consequences. I'm assuming you didn't eat anything before you drank, or while you drank either, judging by the puke that flushed down in the loo," John had to keep himself from shouting. He was so angry, but only because it was easier to react that way as opposed to any other.

A dawning realization seemed hit Sherlock suddenly and he spoke before really thinking of what he was saying, as drunk people are want to do, "I reminded you of your sister, didn't I? That's why you're being so adamant about this..."

"This has nothing to do with my sister-"

"I'm pretty sure it does. The circumstances and variables all add up to a significant psychological reaction, with a bank of emotive memories fuelling such an intense response-"

"Sherlock! This has nothing to do with my sister or any reaction I have to her alcoholism! This has everything to do with my reaction of you showing up at home filled up to your eyeballs with liquor. Enough liquor, I might add, to knock out a sixteen stone American linebacker! You aren't going anywhere if I have anything to say about it, not when I have to monitor you just in case you go into bloody shock..."

Holmes went quiet with the conclusion of his outburst. He stared down at the tea sloshing against the rim of his mug before saying anything again. And when he did, it was with a voice far more controlled than he'd had all night,

"I'm sorry for bringing up things that are not within my place to be commenting on. I've made you angry, probably furious, and I shall have to do better to refrain from repeating such a faux pas. I am sorry, John," he intoned, his blue eyes searching John's own.

The man in question sighed deeply, forgetting his own mug of tea huddled in his lap as he rubbed his face with his only free hand. Damn Sherlock for that expression of his. It was impossible to really be irritated with the guy when he did things like this. Not only that, but he'd just gotten done talking with the man's brother about social norms and how the Holmes had to work at it or give up entirely. He'd be a hypocrite to be offended.

"I'm not furious, Sherlock. It's not that at all. I was worried... still am honestly. Why'd you do it? What drove you to imbibing so much? You're too intelligent to want to damage that brain of your's with depressants," he asked, feeling more tired every time he breathed in.

Those blue eyes searched him a little longer before pointedly turning away. Sherlock sunk further into his pillows looking very much like a child with those auburn curls and his ratty house coat. He was in thought, John knew, debating with himself how much he was willing to say. It was alright to give the man time to collect his thoughts. It wasn't like John was being any better, asking such a personal question to the man before him.

"...I was _upset_..." the consultant said, but that was all that could be understood from what Sherlock was mumbling, looking into his upturned hands.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't quite hear that," John said, trying to encourage him to speak up.

Sherlock groaned loudly, startling his flatmate, and chugged the rest of the contents of his mug before thumping the ceramic on the beside table. The movement jarred the only light source in the whole of the room. The strange-looking lamp shuddered a bit with the force of his movement, hreatening to blinker out on them both.

"I was upset about..._ Mycroft_... he's sick, ill, maybe even dying. I've read of countless diseases you can get that waste you away from the inside out. I also know five of the doctors he's seen. I know the length at which they'd go to discover what's ailing my arch-enemy," Sherlock began, crossing his arms and curling in on himself,

"Don't you understand, John? Arch-enemies are not supposed to die from disease...! They're supposed to be defeated by their opponent... me... I, Sherlock Holmes,... and then they're supposed to retire to the country or some such other silly thing to spend the rest of their days in isolation, forever shamed by their utter _demise_!"

John smiled to himself, trying to hide it behind his mug. Sherlock was being rather adorable. That was the only word that fit in his head to describe the man-child before him. For all his great intelligence, Sherlock Holmes was prone to the most juvenile of explanations for his feelings.

"...They're not supposed to get a disease from some stupid remote part of the world they probably visited without the correct vaccines. What if it was one of those bloody dignitaries bringing something to a party? There is no such thing as perfection... especially with arch-enemies... they, they're not supposed to go off and disappear for a month and then show up again only to tell me he's sick and wasting away with no way of fixing it..."

"Sherlock..."

"...and what am I supposed to do now? Bloody inconvenient bastard ruining my thought process, throwing off my Zen. It's impossible to work under these conditions! He did it _on purpose_!"

"Sherlock!"

"_What?!_"

"Your brother's alright. He's fine. He's just a bit over stressed. He doesn't eat enough and he works out too much. It's a simple imbalance. I can fix that. He's not diseased. Mycroft. _Isn't._Dying," John explained after shaking his flatmate out of his tirade. He grasped the man's thin shoulders, trying to force him to cease flailing about in the sheets.

Strong hands held onto John's bare forearms, and a jolt of electricity shot up to his own shoulders. The skin-on-skin contact was entirely too distracting, but John prevailed in keeping his thoughts centred. Sherlock was still staring at his face, looking for an honesty that the doctor only half felt. Watson stared straight on, not at all flinching when blue met blue. He really didn't want Sherlock to catch the tiny fib of those statements.

It was true that there was nothing physically wrong with Mycroft. That wasn't a lie. He didn't have a disease and he wasn't going to keel over any time soon. The greater challenge would be next week when Mycroft's feelings and inner thoughts were going to come into play. That was were things got a bit hairy.

Whatever the younger man saw must have been enough, however, because he calmed down and laid back against his headboard full of pillows. John could have danced a jig right about now.

"Do I really have to stay in bed for a whole eight hours?" Holmes asked, a soured look upon his face for the inconvenience of the whole lot of it.

"I wouldn't say stay in bed the whole time, but you're not leaving my sight for that length. Besides, when you finally pop off to sleep you'll wake up with a banging headache that I'll get to take advantage of. Take heart, Sherlock, I _am_a doctor. I've got the best headache remedy that I came up with during my service. You'll just love the taste of it, I promise," John stated, cheeky grin and all.

Sherlock's expression became something rather like a cross between exasperation and terror. Maybe the consultant should have thought about what it meant to have a doctor move in with him when the man hated hospitals the most, even more than the apparently incompetent Scotland Yard.

* * *

**AN: **_Day one is finally done! Sorry for the late uploads again. I really had some crazy stuff go on this week that I wasn't planning on having to deal with. The updates should continue to be rather close together. But this IS my fun fic. I'm writing this because I needed something to take my mind off of my HPAU fic. That thing is a monster, and this is not that hard to write in comparison. I hope everyone has enjoyed this so far. PLEASE~ Feel free to tell me about it in reviews. What do you like? _

_As always, please,_** READ and REVIEW~! **_They make me feel all giddy inside to get your comments. If anyone has any suggestions, I'll also love to hear those too! _**Thank you!**


	9. In Which Lestrade Counts his Blessings

**(Holy shit. So I totally switched Chapter 9 with Chapter 8 and ho dang, that scared me. I thought I couldn't fix it)**

**Disclaimer: **_I do not own BBC's Sherlock or any of the characters based off of Sir Conan Doyle's most excellent work. I make absolutely no money off of this._

**Warnings:** _Lestrade's too sexy for his shirt._

* * *

Gregory Lestrade was a gentleman of the force.

Presently, he was the Chief Inspector of one of the most efficient and qualified squads in Her Majesty's policing forces. He was gritty, witty, and a tough detective with kilometres long track record of exemplary service. He was willing to drop everything to help a civilian in distress and made the streets of London a bit safer every day. The elite detective was driven by the desire to do good in the world (and just maybe to make amends for some of the shit he got up to in his youth). He wasn't perfect, but he was perfect for his work.

DI G. Lestrade was happily married to his career, and that was why his unhappy wife left him six months ago.

No one knew about it, though how he managed it with the Met's notorious gossip grapevine was astounding. His commanding officers knew, of course, but they respected him enough to keep it to themselves. He disguised court hearings, lawyer visits, and moving his boys to their aunts' with vacation time, conveniently placed off-days, and cashing in the sick days he'd never used before. The less the rest of the world knew about his private life, the better he felt.

It was never safe to constantly announce the dramatic changes in one's life when internal and external forces could easily harm or destroy the things important to you. No one, not even Dimmock, had ever met his kids. Oly and Roi, seven and ten respectively, knew their daddy was a cop, a good one too, but they were too busy with school or their lessons to insist upon anything much other than stories. They were good kids. The _best_, in his humble opinion.

They didn't deserve the great upheaval their foolish parents were thrusting upon them. So it was easy, very easy, to act like nothing was wrong most of the time. Mommy wanted to move out of London, and didn't care to take her children with her. Her youth was squandered by being married to her husband's sorry ass all these years. She was more than ten years younger than him, she still had time to really find herself.

She'd lost it all when she became a cop's wife, she said. She wanted to go back home, to be with her family and to forget his. She'd visit, she said. She'd take the kids for the summers, she said. After a while, it all became so utterly_ fake_. Greg wanted to punch her, but he'd never hit a woman. Finally manning up to the fact the mother of your children didn't want anything to do with you or said children anymore was a big pill to swallow. He'd had enough marriage counselling to understand this fact of his life.

Instead Aunt Jacquie and Auntie Rose took on the role of mother for their nephews, while their father was busy running about after serial killers and kidnappers. He tried to not feel guilty about it, and the family that was left insisted he had to do his job. Oly said he wouldn't play with him anymore if he stopped being a superhero. Roi didn't speak to him for a week when he mentioned he might retire from the force to Rosemarie over coffee.

The statement didn't go over well with anyone, not even himself after he suggested it. He thanked his stars his kids and little sisters had better sense than he. He'd have ruined his life and made them all miserable if he'd gone through with submitting those papers.

Besides, Sherlock would have_ never_have forgiven him... the bloody nuisance.

"What is it Sherlock? You've been texting me for the last hour in crazy half-sentences that don't make a lick of sense to the rest of us," Gregory said to his closest friend aside from his sometimes partner, but mostly subordinate, DI Dimmock. The bastard had been making cryptic allusions to something or another, but the detective hadn't had the chance to decipher them in between taxi rides to and from the London Zoo (Oly's school trip) and piano lessons (Roi's current artistic obsession).

"If you'd care to pick up your phone when one calls you, _four times_I might add, you'd know that I'm headed your way. I estimate I'll arrive in precisely fifteen minutes if the tube permits. I know it will, so expect to meet me at the coffee house across from your sister's flower shop. I'll have an espresso, black, one sugar," came the concise cadence over the detective's cellular.

Greg rolled his eyes to the ceiling of the cab, trying to fight the grin threatening to stretch across his features, "Is this about the case?"

"...What _else_would it be about?" the snark reply made the inspector bark a laugh.

Roi sitting beside him shot his father an odd look, brow arching in a very prim fashion. Greg wondered idly where his son ever learned such an expression (_he_certainly hadn't taught him). Being the mature one of the bunch Lestrade simply stuck his tongue out, making Oly bouncing on his other side giggle. The seven-year-old stuck his own tongue at his brother, mimicking their father precisely.

"You seem to be in a cross mood, Sherlock. Care to elaborate?" the greying cop inquired, musing his youngest's black curls to stop him from harassing his older brother.

The huff heard on the other end of the line was exceptionally put upon, and Greg really was interested to hear what the genius was so bothered about. Sherlock certainly didn't sound like it was just the murder case twisting his knickers about.

"I'm not well enough for the games you want to play, Lestrade. Get yourself to the cafe and I might be a bit more inclined to satisfy your curiosity."

"Very well. I'm dropping off these vagabonds I just apprehended, and then I'll be there," Greg replied.

"Hey! We're not vag-baga-"

"_Vagabonds_, Oly. Papa's just being silly. Ignore him like usual."

"Hey! I'm not silly!" the detective exclaimed, feigned hurt and frowning dramatically. Roi simply sighed in exasperation.

"I rather agree with your largest offspring, Lestrade. Now get out of the bloody cab and go across the damn street. I'll be there in seven. You have just enough time to make an order, so hop to it!"

The resounding click of the call severing was the definitive end to that conversation. Greg gave up all pretences then and rushed his brood out of the taxi. He paid the cabbie their fair, and passed the boys off to Jacqueline, who'd come out to meet them. She had to water the spindly honeysuckle anyway, and Rose would be home any minute to start dinner. The boys would be fine for whatever nonsense Sherlock was gong on about.

Who knows? The consultant might have actually done his job in a legal enough manner this time for them to use whatever he'd uncovered. _That_would be the day. It was getting harder and harder on his reports for Greg to tweak evidence processing enough to be acceptable. Someone (usually the bad guy) had to do something overly dramatic (and most likely dangerous) to give them the more solid of their past cases.

With a quick explanation, and a few hugs and kisses, Gregory was off running across the busy street to meet up with the only person not in his family to ever figure the situation out. After all, how do you keep secrets from the man famous for uncovering them at a glance? Especially when he happens to be the closest of your "friends"?

* * *

**AN: **_So a little bit on Lestrade. This the the fist insert to a sequence of scenes I've had floating in my head. I had a lovely reviewer give me their input and decided to go with Lestrade first, then onward back to Mycroft in the next chapter. I love duality, and am interested in the parallels of story writing. You'll see what I mean. _  
**  
**_As always, please,_** READ and REVIEW~! Thank you! **


	10. In which John is Feeling Slightly Duped

**Disclaimer:** _I do not own BBC's Sherlock or any of the characters based off of Sir Conan Doyle's most excellent work. I make absolutely no money off of this._

**Warnings:** _Slightly Angsty?_

* * *

"You're looking verily fresh this afternoon, Dr. Watson," a coolly prim voice sounded across from a slightly haggard John Watson. As always, the government official looked perfectly put together in another of those bespoke suit and tie ensembles. John felt under-dressed in his woollen jumper and corduroys.

'_The bastard..._' grumbled Watson in his head, though he'd never utter it aloud in this particular company.

He not only didn't want to fathom the nefarious payback he'd receive for the comment, but John couldn't quantify the headway they wouldn't gain if he gave the elder Holmes even an inch of wiggle room. Sherlock was slippery. How much more would Mycroft turn out to be?

"And a lovely afternoon to you as well, Mycroft-"

"Interesting night you had, I presume?" the russet-haired gentleman cut the doctor off. A façade of cool boredom and fiddling with the ever-present umbrella wasn't enough of a disguise to hide the underlying current of concern John could detect.

"You have no bloody idea. Your brother drank his _weight_ in liquor and then went on to sing folk songs with the hubbub of half London's winos. He stumbled into my apartment only to puke his liver into the toilet, unfortunately unfacilitated," John sighed, world-weary bones aching from the previous night still and his most hectic morning. He'd managed to snag the rest of his afternoon off with the rest of the on-call surgeon staff.

Sherlock was nowhere to be found, as usual, so John thought he'd take a shot at squeezing in a half-hour or two with Mycroft. He'd gotten a bit more information for the man from a few colleagues and was far more comfortable with conversations through vocalization versus emails. Mycroft agreed immediately (a space for personal conversation apparently arose after a shuffle of a third-party's schedule). So here Watson was, invited to a proper afternoon tea at four o'clock on the dot.

"Is that so? Did you see to it he remain bedridden?" Mycroft asked in an even tone.

Anthea entered as they spoke bearing a tray of England's finest china with cucumber sandwiches and those powdered tea cakes John was terribly fond of. He'd not had afternoon tea since he was twelve and visiting a distant aunt, so it startled the doctor to see those very same pastries she'd served placed before him. Mycroft's attention to personal detail would be borderline psychotic if it weren't for the fact that Watson was significantly anaesthetized to the surreal creep factor all Holmes men exuded.

"Two sugars and milk please. Thank you," John requested when the secretary stared at him pointedly with a hot tea kettle firmly in her grasp.

He turned his thoughts back towards Mycroft as Anthea poured his host a serving, clearly not needing to ask her employer how he took his tea,

"You bet your ass I did. I would have taken him to the hospital if I didn't know how fatal an operation that would be. He'd claw the floorboards like a cat with me dragging him not a foot closer to the door. I convinced him to bed rest, hydration, and a good herbal remedy that-let us say- takes a very pungent bouquet when concocted," John finished with a self-satisfied smile into his tea cup.

A strange look passed over Mycroft's face. It was very similar to one revealed the previous night, but it passed like a small cloud over the sun; entirely missed by his companion who wasn't looking for it.

"I have always held the strong belief that those in the medical profession have a semi-subconscious inclination towards sadism. You are not doing much to negate this notion, Dr. Watson. I'm terribly afraid this train of thought has trickled down to my precious baby brother. Though how he's come to such conclusions on his own is beyond me," the eldest Holmes mused aloud.

"I promise you I have never been diagnosed with sadomasochistic tendencies. I'm merely like all other blokes who find a bit of fun at the expense of their friends when the opportunity presents," John laughed to himself,

"Besides, it was for the betterment of Sherlock's constitution. It was like killing two birds with one stone. really," he explained, remembering the horrified expressions of this morning when John practically pried his flatmate's mouth open to pour a bitter, biting syrup (home-made) down that pale throat. After much gagging and moaning, Sherlock had to admit an hour later, after toast, that his headache was marginally receding. It was off to the inner bowels of the London health system for Watson soon after, obnoxious patients and interns in all.

"Speaking of which, you mentioned (actually, _Anthea_ mentioned) that you had made a little headway on your journal. Care to elaborate?" John asked, remembering the main reason why he was sitting in this posh office space in some unmarked building half-way across the south side of London.

"Yes. I have catalogued the first of my memories I wish to dictate to you for your assessment. It was a bit of a revelation, this morning's yoga and running meditation," Mycroft spoke with a light cadence, though he fiddled with the hem of his fine cuff sleeve.

Watson was rather surprised at this announcement. It'd not been a day since seeing each other and his patient already had material to analyse. Holmes men did work rather swiftly when the end to the means was beneficial to them, he reminded himself quickly. Maybe this had been the reason the otherwise unattainable government official had managed to make space for his new physician on such short notice?

"...That's quite efficient of you, Mycroft. Is there a specific subject you were attracted to when you were mindfully running?" Watson asked between two sips of tea. It was a little brisk outside, so the hot drink was much appreciated.

Mycroft settled his hands over his flat stomach, his elbows resting on the arms of the cushioned Windsor chair. His face was a study as he hummed to himself. Again, the man was deciding how much information he would reveal to Watson. It should have irritated him that he could tell such a thing, but John simply took the quirk in stride. They'd get nothing done if he couldn't maintain his cool. He could simply ask for more if need be anyway. It was unnecessary to push the private man too far.

After a moment Mycroft looked up, catching his physician in the eyes and, speaking quite softly, began his explanation,

"I was musing on the play of heredity in the current situation. Temperaments and constitutions passed from parent to child, if you will. Our mother is a stout woman of both conviction and heart. She, even in her delicate elegance, has never fallen ill of any malady, even the common cold. She's never had a sniffle, never had an ache, mayhap she is the incarnation of fortitude itself," he spoke with a smile dancing on his lips. His fondness of this woman was very apparent in John's eyes.

There was a pause where tea was taken and the government official turned his face to the window view. Watson held his breath. Next they'd speak of the man's father. This was the very subject he'd been wanting to hear about. Mycroft sighed, placing his cup and saucer on the tea table,

"Our father, the late Lord Holmes, was her opposite in every way. He'd once been very spritely as mother had told us when we were young. And in many old pictures she keeps he looks just dashing in his suits and uniform as any man of his position would have. But war changes every boy into a man. The man that comes from such a transformation is not always a close echo to the youth that had once been."

Mycroft glanced at Watson, imploring the doctor to understand before he continued, "Lord Holmes was a man of dignified reclusiveness. Born in World War II, fear of death took him by the ears and shouted at him from the very beginning of his life. He was a genius, serving this country in the Korean War in intelligence in his mid-teens. He helped further Britain's causes and campaigns in every major skirmish we got ourselves into from then on... It took its toll. Mother says when they met it was only she he ever smiled for,"

"Upon his retirement from the Army and the birth of myself at our country estate, my father became even more of a recluse. They'd given him a position in the government that to this day I do not really know the job description of. As you can assume it didn't afford much time for for the fathering of Sherlock and I when my brother came six years later. When the man did have time to himself from his work in London, it was never spent with my brother and I. If it was given to anyone it would have been our mother."

Mycroft was very good at keeping his voice even, though Watson could tell this subject did not do well for his mental state by the frequency of his fidgeting. It was slightly fulfilling to know that his suspicions had been proven correct, however horrible the reality of that situation was. At least their father was around for a large portion of their lives, John thought, though he wouldn't really call what they must have experienced having a father in one's life.

Even so, John couldn't shake the feeling that he didn't know what was worse: knowing your father left because he hated you, or having your father still there but ignore you all the same.

"If you were wondering what our relationship to Ms. Hudson was, it's really quite simple," Mycroft said changing subjects suddenly. It was still a question that had been floating around in Watson's mind for forever, though, so he did not steer the elder brother back to his father. John sat up a little straighter in his chair, just as eager to hear this particular explanation as the one before,

"Ms. Hudson is the sister to our housekeeper Mrs. Mable Button, whose husband is our grounds keeper. The Buttons were closer to family than our own cousins to be quite frank. My brother and I treated them as such, at least. They were greater parental figures in our youths than our own parents," he explained, the implications of such a situation highly apparent when one considers the Holmes men's privileged background. John had never experienced something like that in his own background, but there were books, biographies, and fellow soldiers who came from money that all told a similar story.

"Whenever our father went to London, Ms. Hudson was the one who kept him. Not on Baker Street, mind you, but further down in another set of apartments near the men's club our father favoured. It seemed proper that when I and my brother went to university and onward that we would seek her recommendations on accommodations. The sisters happen to have brothers in both Oxford and Cambridge, much to my mother's delight. Their youngest sister, Ms. Turner, lives in Edinburgh, whom we have employed as the housekeeper to our familial estate there for similar reasons as the Buttons."

Now Watson knew why Mrs. Hudson put up with the craziness that was Sherlock. The whole family had Holmeses up to their eyeballs. Maybe Mrs. Button warned Mrs. Hudson about the youngest Holmes beforehand?

Thinking of the exasperated expressions on the poor woman's face half the time, John thought differently. It was probably that the Buttons were so used to the Holmes eccentricities that they didn't think to mention anything unusual. Yes, that sounded the more likely path that had been tread. No one can really prepare you for the force of nature that is Sherlock, or his elder brother who could strike fear into the heart of any man for that matter. Watson almost laughed aloud at the image of that first meeting between Hudson and Holmes.

"I feel rather duped," John stated, suddenly realizing something significant, "Is that why the rent is so bloody cheap? I knew we were splitting the place, but I still wondered considering its prime real-estate location-"

"Yes," Mycroft cut in, "I'm sure you're splitting the rent, but Sherlock's probably not telling you how he's splitting it," the man pointed out, smirking into his tea cup.

John felt worried for a moment, thinking he'd been given charity when he wasn't asking for it. He'd never taken handouts for himself, and he didn't want to start mid-way through his life. Before the burning sensation of shame or the biting of anger in his gut overwhelmed his thoughts, Mycroft was quick to dissolve such silly notions,

"The rent is that way for a reason you realize, Dr. Watson. It wasn't anything to do with you, but rather Sherlock himself. He never intended for anyone to actually room with him. The chances of finding someone to put up with my baby brother's antics was so slim he never taken the notion seriously. He, if he spoke to me at all in those years, always said 'it'd take a fool or a genius' to live with him, and he 'wanted neither in his breathing space'."

Watson had to admit that that sounded awfully like what Sherlock would have said. The irritated feeling in his chest subsided. It was better to know that it had been a mutual sacrifice of personal sanity, than a one-sided dupe.

"The rent was made that way to almost appease for, or make up for, living with my brother. Between Mrs. Hudson and Mike Stamford, however, it was agreed that if ever there was a such a person they thought could tolerate it, that without Sherlock's consent the two of you would meet. Sherlock is his own worst enemy at times. He had a habit of tricking or scaring off anyone they told him about beforehand. To be honest, it was as if the world was waiting for someone like you to show up at just the right time..."

* * *

**AN:** _Take note that these chapters are little doses of character and conversation. I never intend for them to go over 3,000 words. If there is more to the conversation, it will be discussed the next round of writing them. _

_Terribly sorry folks this took so bloody long. I was in a real bind for some weeks after the last post and in a nasty rut of writer's block for some time after. I knew what I wanted to write, but I was absolutely floored as how to go about it. I had to coax some thoughts down on paper for another genre (HP, if you must know) for a week and then I really was dried up for a solid month. Stopped myself from freaking out, read a few books, became inspired again, and wrote this down lickety split. I do, really, apologize for the delay. _

_As always, please,_** READ and REVIEW~!**_ Thank you!_


	11. The Past is One

**Disclaimer:** I do not own BBC's Sherlock or any of the characters based off of Sir Conan Doyle's most excellent work. I make absolutely no money off of this.

**Warnings**: Mentions of drugs, sex, rock and roll, of substance abuse by under-age adolescences.

* * *

_The lights were dimmed in preparation for the set. Only in the daylight could you really see the dark corners of this hole-in-the-wall club. The older kids at his secondary school had recommended he check it out over the summer break. Apparently it boasted hosting some of the best bands to come out of Britain (_including this act called Blur that was playing tonight_). It was the second-best place to go outside of Manchester, but there was no way his family would let him go that far up north for no reason. Being a slightly desperate teenager wanting to socialize with other people his own age and older at rock clubs didn't count as a reason. _

_Coming tonight was probably the best idea he'd had in a long time, he thought to himself repeatedly as he stared towards the writhing mass of energetic university students pulsating on the dance floor beneath the raised stage. He kept himself apart from their lot only long enough to swing by the bar. _

_He did manage to convince his parents that a visit to London proper would do him some good. It was easier to lie now that he'd been doing it for so long. It also helped that his mother thought he could do no wrong, and his father didn't care to catch him in his fibbing. Clothes he'd bought the day of (_entirely unapproved of by his mother_), and a fake ID that was a child's task to make was all he'd had to come up with once he'd gotten out of the apartment this morning. _

_This place smelled like sex, and drugs of various bouquets. Weed and alcohol mostly, but he'd gotten used to the smell over the year at the new boarding house. It was easy to sneak things in when you knew the right people. Helped that he was loaded and resourceful, too. Tonight he didn't care to partake of anything except a glass or two of scotch on the rocks. The effects of such substances would interfere too much with his people-watching, which was the whole point of coming this evening. _

_It was a game of his to observe the people around him and dissect their life stories in a matter of minutes. He never talked to them, of course, merely looked at them without their noticing. The really interesting ones or the more complex stories took a little longer, but they were far more rewarding in the end. Sometimes he even fantasized what it'd be like to know them personally, be friends with them, and (_if they were attractive enough_) what it might be like to sleep with them. He'd already done this with everyone imaginable at his school within the first month of being there. No one had reached the category of him desiring them, however, which was highly disappointing. Clearly the British pool of wealthy youths in his generation weren't the greatest in comely form. _

_Tonight he hoped to find something to feed his budding teenage fantasies. Sure he could look at who was popular in pop culture these days, but that was so uninteresting. Half the people in the public eye were fake. The other half was so grossly not his type. Mayhap this band sported some fetching lookers, or this varied teeming of people from all over London would produce a valid candidate? He could only hope. The game was afoot at the drop of the hour and his first taste of liquor this evening. _

_Thirty minutes (_and the band not on for another hour_) later, something caught his eye. Well, rather, someone by the length of those legs. Glossy leather trousers far too tight to be comfortable, combat boots laced up the top-half of strong ankles, and wavy hair the colour of chocolate. He could only see the back of this possible candidate so the debate on their merit was still up in the air. _

_" _Bugger_..." he breathed out, taking a strong swig of scotch to cover his disappointment. _

_Candidate number one turned out to have a mean face and looked like too much of a bully to be any kind of good kisser. He told himself the night was young and there were other fish in the sea. At least he had the sense to observe first and flirt later (as if it ever came to that). Kept him from making a fool of himself by backing out of a situation with an oaf. The brute probably didn't take 'no' for an answer. _

_He looked over the tops of the crowd. Grunge and glam clashed a lot in this club, he observed. Some people were far too colourful. Others totally bleak-looking in their dark ripped jeans and t-shirts. He couldn't fathom the construction of some of those hairstyles. He was fine in his button-downed band merch and messy hair. Was there anyone else in this club that wasn't trying so hard to stand out?_

_"_I see you find all their drama just as entertaining as I do_," a darkly smooth voice whispered in his ear. He must have jumped a foot out of his seat. Scotch was spilt in the travesty of his embarrassment. Whirling around, he was prepared to glare intimidatingly until the fiend left his sight. _

_But what a sight he turned around to. Stormy grey eyes smiled at him beneath a riot of long black locks. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, relaxed appearance, and a definite air of confidence seen unmatched by anyone he'd ever caught sight of before. He felt the great need to throw something at this obnoxiously attractive person before him. How dare this asshole frighten him like that? _

_"_I find their underlying lack of self-assurance mildly pathetic, yes. As well as their overwhelming desire to fit in much too drivel for my tastes_," he intoned coldly, signalling the barkeep for another drink. He tried to look occupied as to deter conversation betwixt him and this interrupter. _

_"_Ah, but you are here as well as I am, so does that not include ourselves in your assessment?_" the interrupter pointed out, nursing his own beer and sitting quite comfortably on the barstool just beside his own. Built shoulders bunched and tensed beneath thin shirt material as the man shifted the position of his elbows on the polish wood counter. _

_It made his mouth go dry uncomfortably. He was glad for the liquid courage burning down his throat in one long swallow before he spoke up again, _

_"_I did not come here to throw my desperation upon the masses. And if you're here to do it on the individual you might as well turn your attentions elsewhere for I won't be a part of it_," he finished sharply, turning entirely away from the cocky, fit bastard burning that aura into his every sense. _

_A laugh like the warmth of a hearth flooded his ears. It made the tips of his ears heat at the pleasure of it. He felt like the butt of some great joke, but knew not what to do to thwart the feeling or thwart the person making him feel thusly. _

_"_You are quite entertaining. I'd like to keep your company a bit longer if I could. I would pay money to hear your opinions..._" the voice said with no malice at all. _

_He thought surely this was a joke being made at his expense, and turned swiftly around the spinning stool to catch this man's expression. But his expression was open, and honest, and it held no meanness about the eyes or lips. Was this man truly interested in what he had to say? _

_"_I can tell you are not from here_," he said trying one last time to drive the elder youth from his presence._

_"_Not from here? Well I'm not actually from this area I live a little further towards-_-" _

_"_No, I mean from Britain itself_," he cut the man off. The slight lilt of the man's cadence had sat wrong with him in this distinctly English club, _

_"_You're French, are you not? Of course you are, but not full. Your features and colouring suggest you are most likely half and come from the countryside. Close enough to Paris that your tone can take on a more Parisian accent if you tried to fit in. More often it rolls more smoothly as if you were to speak as you would with your family. Your father is a Frenchman, but your mother is English. You moved here roughly five years ago due to their work_," he continued his own mental assessment out loud He rolled the rocks glass with his wrist, pointedly not looking at the shocked expression he knew would be slowly stretching over the interrupter's face._

_"_You have tried very successfully to fit in with the other half of your cultural background, but it has been hard to lose the accent that you never noticed when your mother made you speak English with her. Until you do you will not be considered by many a real part of the country you heard about growing up, and sometimes visited in your childhood. But only people like me who can hear the difference will notice this now, and point out your separation from the city that you are so passionately trying to be a part of..._" and stopped himself from going on._

_He took a deep, long breath as he let the chilled scotch make his traitorous tongue tingle. Swallowing, he thought the inevitable outraged outburst might not be as terrible he expected it would be. At least there was a fair chance this chap wouldn't burst into tears over his assessments like so many girls had in primary school. _

_It was a solid sixty seconds before he gained the courage to turn his gaze back onto his uninvited evening companion. An inexplicable expression was plastered on the man's features. He couldn't tell if this was bad news or good. He chose silence as his great ally, and a neutral look on his part to maintain his cool. _

_No matter what, he mustn't let the inevitable fallout from this ruin his night. He was merely candidate number two. There were others. There were three hundred people in this club by rough estimate. One out of three hundred couldn't be the only fruitful observation of the night. And it wasn't his fault the idiot had come onto him, the awkward youth uncomfortable with conversation, but on this fool who startled him out of a half-glass of scotch. _

_"_You have to be the most interesting person I've ever met..._" the man said in an almost reverent tone, shocking him for the second time this night. An incredulous expression washed over his face before he could help it._

_That same glorious laugh rumbled out of the man's chest once more, "_No really, you are fascinating! I've not met anyone in a long time who could figure out what was wrong with the way I spoke. And yes, I'm still working on it on an almost daily basis, thanks for noticing. Care for a fag?"

_And like that the two of them spent the rest of the evening smoking cigarettes and drinking their respective poisons. The band played, they watched, and spent most of the time after talking about everything from pop culture to politics. They had widely varying opinions on a great number of things, but compromise and the random agreement on a subject showed how much they really had in common. _

_By the end of the night when it was far past when he needed to be back at the apartments, it had become the best night of his life._

_"_So I'll see you around maybe?_" the man said as they stood in the brisk chill of the night lights on the street outside the emptying club. _

"Maybe..._" a melancholic tone overcame any positivity he felt. He really didn't know when he'd see this man again. School was starting in a week and only another day left in London after this. _

_The man must have caught onto the vibe of this train of thought because a small smile stretched across his handsome face, "_Cheer up. There will always be other nights. I'll find you again in a crowd, easy_," he said softly, knocking shoulders with the shorter boy._

_"_And how would you go about doing that?_" he asked, glancing at that terribly masculine face. He was honestly curious, and only slightly hopeful of what the answer was. _

_"_Your wonderful red hair. Not many people have this colour naturally around here. It's quite distinctive. I think I'll remember it all my life as your's. Who knows, maybe we go to the same college? I'll just rugby tackle you to the ground the next I see you and we'll go from there_."_

_He blushed scarlet at the complement. It was so frank he felt almost bashful for hearing such a thing, let alone the comment be directed at himself. He fiddled with his hands and entirely missed the knowing grin flitting across the man's face as they lined their feet up with the curb._

_He felt awful suddenly for lying to this wonderful person. It'd be another year before he graduated from his private preparatory school and went straight to university (_he was smart enough to do it_). And once he graduated it wouldn't be any school in London he'd end up going to. His parents had Ivy League in mind. Maybe even abroad for a time to see the world outside of Britain. The chances of seeing this man again were dwindling before him, and he had no idea what to do about it. The noose of his parents expectations was, once again, starting to strangle him._

_"_Maybe we will, then, see each other around. I at least know you go to this club. Maybe will catch each other at another show?_" he said, wishing to the heavens there was a chance. _

_"_I'm sure we will. Anyway, that's my ride with the rest of those fools across the street_," the man pointed out to a group of students flagging down a rather large taxi,_

_"_They seem to be flailing for my attention. How graceful..._" the man snorted, but then flailed his own arm in reply. He stepped off the curb and onto the street away from the auburn haired boy who was trying very hard to keep the sadness from his eyes. _

_The urge to touch those broad shoulders was fighting for dominance in his impulses, but he was far too controlled to ever allow such a thing. It was better to sever this as cleanly as possible. Already the feel of them elbow to elbow was singed into his fondest memories. No, it was better to let it be and hope for the brightest future for this imported Frenchman. He was preparing the way he'd look as they waved goodbye across the street from each other, when the man once again was as unexpected as his first appearance. _

_He'd made three solid steps out onto the busy road, but had turned back to retrace his steps. Before the boy could ask the man what the matter was, firm lips descended on his own and calloused fingers threaded through his bright hair._

_The very air fled his lungs in one fell swoop. The boy who had never been kissed, in one touch between two lips, tasted heaven for the first time. The taste of euphoria was his for all eternity in the memory of that closeness. It only lasted for a second or two, and the man really did make his way across the street after. He was _(of course_) cajoled and wolf whistled by his mates as they shoved him in the taxi to go back to wherever whence they came. _

_The boy was too stunned to do much else but wave back when the man shoved his head and hand out the window in a final farewell. When he finally did make it back to his family's apartments the only thing he could think of was that kiss. It wasn't until morning that he realized he had never been asked his name. _

_In turn, he had never asked for the name of the grey-eyed Frenchman. Most would have been devastated by this situation, but he, who was unlike anyone else in the world, only felt it was proper that one's first real kiss be shrouded in so much mystery. _

* * *

**AN:** A gift for all those who were patient with me. I beg thee for your forgiveness. Hopefully you enjoyed the first memory I share with you from Mycroft's past.

As always, please, **READ and REVIEW~!** Thank you! It only takes a few clicks and a button press!


End file.
